Читать книгу The McCabe Girls Complete Collection: Cat, Fen, Pip, Home Truths - Freya North - Страница 25

Fen opened the door to her Kentish Town flat to find Pip clutching the Guardian and two cappuccinos in polystyrene cups. Pip had phoned not half an hour before and Fen had told her that she was working from home because she was desperate for no distraction. The fact that Fen was embroiled in a relationship with a colleague, as well as dithering over another man in Derbyshire, was distraction incarnate. Pip, who did not have a conventional job, never mind the choice of one man let alone two, assessed that if her sister was not physically at her place of work, or getting physical with a male, it meant she was at play and available for confabulation. The fact that Fen was visibly flummoxed, surrounded by papers and fluorescent Post-its, was of no relevance to Pip. She bustled in, removed the plastic lids from the coffee and licked each one clean. Fen, exasperated, motioned to her papers and files.

‘Very nice,’ said Pip, handing her sister a coffee, turning straight to Cat’s report on the procession down to Pau the previous day. ‘She’s very good, our baby sis,’ Pip murmured as Cat’s passion for the Tour filtered through the newsprint and infused the reader.

‘I’m dying to know what’s happening,’ Fen said, now enjoying the cappuccino and grateful for her sister’s intrusion.

‘Me too,’ Pip enthused. ‘Both Cat and that nice Paul Sherwen chap from Channel 4 say that the race starts in earnest now, in the mountains, that the challenge for the yellow jersey will be at its most intense and consequential.’

Fen stared at Pip. ‘All that – yes,’ she said, ‘and Fabian Ducasse is a spunk and a half, but I was referring to Cat – and the doc. Where do you think they’re at?’

‘Oh blimey, of course,’ Pip said, sitting cross-legged at her sister’s feet, ‘brawny Ben.’

‘Shall we phone her?’ Fen suggested, already dialling. Pip grabbed the phone from her, scooping cappuccino froth from the side of the cup with her index finger while waiting for Cat to answer.

‘Hullo?’ said Cat, sounding like she was just around the corner, sounding like she had just woken up.

‘Have you shagged him yet?’ Pip all but squealed.

Though she really shouldn’t have been startled by her sister’s trademark bluntness, Cat found herself answering with an affirmative giggle. While she listened to her sisters shrieking with delight in the background, Cat considered that, though she had indeed shagged Ben, that they had quite categorically fucked each other’s brains out, gorged on each other to satisfy a very base hunger, there had been an edge to it all. Right from the start. Sexual desire, yes, but something else, something more too. Merely confirming that she had shagged the man did both him and herself something of a disservice. It had been more than just sex, but what, exactly? Surely the sex could not have been so good without this enhancing extra layer of something or other? Physical attraction is one thing on but one level; to be mutually attracted to each other is something else and multi-faceted. And somewhat perplexing.

‘He’s lovely,’ Cat said to Pip’s ‘Come on come on come on!’

‘What was it like?’ Fen asked excitedly. ‘Was he good?’

‘It was great,’ Cat replied.

‘Where did you do it?’ Pip butted in. ‘When? How many times?’

‘I like him,’ Cat reiterated, thinking, deluded, that she was being discreetly noncommittal, ‘it was great.’

And then Cat changed the subject. ‘The weather is absolutely appalling here today – it’s cold and very wet. It’s going to be torture for the boys. Promise you’ll watch? Promise you’ll pray for them? You’re going to meet a host of new characters today – all those powerful sprinters so familiar last week will now be gone from sight. They’ve passed the baton to the grimpeurs – lithe, wiry, crazy, brave boys. Watch what the mountains do to them. Watch what they do to the mountains.’

‘The fact that she changed the subject in a way she thought was so subtle—’ Fen starts, replacing the handset, finishing the coffee and reordering her piles of papers.

‘Means one of two things,’ Pip completes.

‘Either the sex was a bit disappointing and reality has let her daydream down,’ Fen theorizes.

‘Or,’ Pip continues for her, ‘Cat’s gone and fallen for him.’

‘In some ways,’ says Fen, very slowly, ‘I rather hope she hasn’t.’

‘I know,’ says Pip, ‘I do too. She’d be safer.’

‘But I rather think it’s the latter,’ Fen clarifies, ‘and I don’t want her to be hurt.’

‘I mean, he’s probably a really lovely guy with honourable intentions,’ Pip says, ‘and has massive desire for Cat, which is great for her – but if she is falling for more than his ability to bring her to orgasm, she is somewhat vulnerable.’

‘And I don’t want her to hurt,’ Fen states, ‘she’s had enough of that.’

Pip was staring at Fen’s calendar from the Musée Rodin.

‘The Eternal Idol, 1899,’ Fen whispers rather hoarsely. ‘Isn’t that clit-quiveringly wonderful?’

‘Huh? Oh yes!’ Pip says, changing her focus to observe the photo of the sculpture. ‘But I was thinking – fancy a weekend in the Alps?’

Fabian Ducasse has spent the least accumulative time in the saddle which is why he is wearing the yellow jersey. He’s been racing for eight days and has covered over 1,570 kilometres in 41½ hours riding. He has over 2,000 kilometres to go, twelve further days in the saddle with two rest days during which he’ll be on his bike, of course. Fabian Ducasse, twenty-nine years old, will climb five mammoth Pyrenean passes today. Tomorrow, another five. All in all, there are seven days in which mountains are to be tackled. By our boys. On their bicycles.

As Cat told her sisters, we have new characters to meet who have spent the last week wisely sheltering safe in the air bubble at the centre of the bunch, conserving their energy for the mountains. The pure sprinters have now had their apportionment of fame. Their current concerns are merely to survive the next week if they are going to make it to Paris at all. Last week, they surged and pumped hard at the front of the peloton in front of the world, now they’ll gladly join the grupetto, the bus of riders that forms the back of the bunch, just keeping together, keeping going, living to ride another day, riding for a living though it nearly kills them. Jesper Lomers and Stefano Sassetta will continue to duel for the green jersey to prove who is the Tour’s most consistent daily finisher; one who can cope with the mountains in the second week, as much as he shone at sprinting in the first. Jesper’s wife Anya has not yet made an appearance. Jesper is doing battle with himself to keep his professional and personal lives separate. And he is at war with Stefano. A handful of points separate them.

We met the two major contenders for the polka dot King of the Mountains jersey before the race but we’ve hardly seen them since. Donna magazine’s ‘Sexiest Man on Two Wheels’, Zucca MV’s dashing Massimo Lipari; the face of a popular chocolate-hazelnut spread and a familiar fixture in the Italian music charts each summer when he releases synthetic Europop in honour of the Giro, his nation’s Grand Tour. Massimo has been King of the Mountains for the last two years. However, the man that Système Vipère transferred at great expense to put a stop to Massimo’s run is the Pocket Rocket – small but charismatic Carlos Jesu Velasquez. A Spaniard riding for a French team, he is taciturn, a family man. Lipari and Velasquez’s style on bike and off are vastly different. Their ability this year is neck and neck. Their aim is the same. The polka dot jersey. A slip of white lycra, spotted red, well worth the pain of pelting up peaks for points.

‘The hills are alive!’ Luca warbled at breakfast, the rest of Megapac regarding him with a mixture of pity and contempt. ‘Come on, guys,’ he continued quietly. Ben looked at him unseen, sensing the rider’s bravado was but a thin veneer laid unconvincingly over his truer anticipation, dread and fear.

‘Eat,’ Ben said, eyeing the plates of pasta. ‘Your bodies are going to use a lot of energy keeping warm today.’

The team were well aware of the rain teeming down the windows. ‘Climb every mountain,’ sang Luca, rather forlornly. Hunter pointed his knife at him but said nothing.

‘It’s wet but all of you must drink as often as you can,’ Ben said, ‘and lots of Vaseline on your feet so wet socks won’t rub.’

‘It’s too wet and cold for bikinis,’ Luca rued, taking more pasta though he wasn’t hungry in the slightest, ‘such a shame. Maybe there’ll be some wet T-shirts instead, hey guys!’ Travis shot him a withering look that went unseen.

‘Luca,’ Ben said, rising from the table, ‘take your negligible brain cells from out of your dick and stick them where they’ll serve you best. Jesus, you can be a bloody headache sometimes.’ Ben left the dining-room, refusing to acknowledge Luca’s look of hurt. Returning to his room, Ben hated himself for foisting his own unrest upon his young rider. He stood still in the centre of the bedroom, then switched on the TV, turning the volume high on whatever channel came on. He didn’t want silence; ironically, he wouldn’t be able to hear himself think. With the TV droning away, he began to bundle his clothes into his case.

‘Would I have felt differently about Cat had I not found out she has a bloke back home?’ he asked himself, sniffing at a shirt and tucking it deep down into the case. ‘Is it the fact that she is unavailable that makes me want her more?’ Ben sat on the edge of the bed for a moment before moving to the chair and then to the window-sill against which he rested the small of his back. ‘Is that what disconcerts me?’ He pushed himself away to lie down on the unmade bed. ‘Bloody women. It’s proof – as if I needed it – that any involvement that goes beyond a mere physical exchange is hassle I don’t need.’

Ben left the bed and went to the bathroom. He looked at himself. ‘Who the fuck said I was involved anyway?’ But the two images of Cat which solicited him in quick succession answered him. The first was watching her, unseen, engrossed in her work in the salle de pressé; her foot tapping, her lips moving – parting into a smile at certain sentences, into a pout when vocabulary eluded her – her whole self focused, a little frown now and then, a twitch of her nose, the brace of her back, accepting a drink from Josh, a quick banter with Alex, a glanced smile at an Italian journalist. She was in a little sundress that day, white pumps and a white, tight T-shirt. Ben had left the salle and walked away with a grin to his groin. The other image accosting him was of Cat climaxing last night, her eyes never leaving his, just glazing over with the pleasure and gazing deep into him. He’d found it an incredibly intense moment. She had been straddling him, gyrating to her peak, moving around and down on to him; his hands had been on her thighs, at her waist, cupping her breasts, and then she stilled herself, gasping and staring at him and he felt her sex suck him deep inside her, her gaze drawing him into her. And then she all but crumpled down on to him with post-orgasmic exhaustion and he wrapped his arms around her, tenderly encircling her as her throbbing subsided. She had smelt wonderful. He could have feasted on the scent of her, the sight and sound of her and never have had his fill.

That any imagery, let alone two vivid and contrasting ones, were deeply ensconced in his soul and mind’s eye, was a disconcerting fact in itself.

It isn’t that I’ve consciously not allowed many women to take residence in my head, to say nothing of my heart – it’s that none of them have really warranted the space. Bloody Cat is bloody everywhere.

Ben knocked his head gently against the mirror, knowing full well that the action would have done little to dislodge Cat from there, that when he turned away to drop his pants and have a piss, he needn’t even close his eyes to summon an image of her. Uninvited? Perhaps. But even if he wished to banish her, he would be unable to.

‘Hey, Rachel,’ Cat said, walking past the soigneur on her way to meet Josh at the car.

‘Morning – but not a good one,’ said Rachel glowering at the sky and then appearing to scrutinize Massimo Lipari’s legs before rubbing them with great consideration. Elsewhere, riders rubbed udder cream or Vaseline on to their nether regions to prevent chafing; the sight alarming neither girl.

‘I think I’d better leave shadowing you till tomorrow,’ Cat said.

‘Wise,’ said Rachel, ‘that’s fine by me. I’m going directly to the hotel anyway.’ Massimo stood, walked a step and a half to his bike and then cycled slowly away, for a last coffee and another piss before the start. Cat began to walk away. Rachel called after her.

‘Yesterday,’ she began, ‘I mean – I didn’t know.’

‘About Ben?’ Cat said with a spirited smile.

‘No,’ said Rachel, regarding her straight, ‘about the other one.’

Cat looked puzzled.

‘Ben’s a really nice guy,’ Rachel continued, ‘I’ve known him for a few years now.’

Cat grinned, reading this as Rachel’s seal of approval which she was flattered to receive.

‘So?’ Rachel prompted.

Cat shrugged.

‘This guy?’ Rachel continued. ‘Back home?’

‘Who?’ said Cat, genuinely confused.

‘Josh was telling us you are deeply involved with a guy back home.’

Cat was rooted to the spot, her jaw had dropped and her eyes were flitting all over Rachel’s face.

‘Us?’ Cat said in hushed horror, half-knowing what she’d hear. ‘Who was the “us”?’

‘Me,’ Rachel said, ‘and Ben.’

‘Oh God,’ Cat cried, turning away and then back again. ‘Oh fuck. Jesus. I’ve got to go.’ Rachel watched her jog away. She’d learnt no more. In fact, she felt she now knew Cat less. That upset her.

Alex and Josh told Cat she ought to drive the route to gain a true feel of the drag of the mountains and the plummet of the descents. Although she had wanted initially to confront Josh immediately, she was ultimately glad of the chance to restore her composure and concentrate on being a journaliste on the Tour de France.

Everything happens for a reason, she told herself in Django’s words and tone as they reached the base of the fearsome Tourmalet. What the reason might be, she was as yet unsure. The Tourmalet not only provided welcome distraction, it absorbed her entirely. She was driving the 18½ kilometres to the 2,115 metre summit of the mighty mountain. There was nothing average about the gradient; 7.7 per cent was the mean and it was just that.

How are the boys going to get up this, with the Aubisque coming right before? And the d’Aspin and Peyresourde after? In this rain and mist? With thousands of fans clinging to the slopes like birds on a cliff and the tifosi – the truly obsessed – thronging either side of the road as the summit nears; crowding in, yelling and running alongside, making it all so narrow, so claustrophobic, so treacherous. How can the riders descend as fast as they can, but safely? Far faster than a car can manage. Look at these bends, the drop. It’s wet. I can hardly see. How are my boys going to cope?

With wills of steel, legs of iron, the snap-quick eye reflexes of an eagle, hearts of a lion, and no nerves to mention.

The terrible grandeur of the mountains elicited fulminations from Alex so colourful and effusive that Cat wondered if he was suffering from Tourette’s syndrome. Josh was capable of little more than whistles and tuts. They made it in one piece to Luchon knowing full well that some of the riders would not.

If Cat had found the drive itself a physical and mental trial, watching the riders do battle with themselves, with each other, with the awesome gradients up and down, was emotionally exhausting. She swallowed down a sob as she watched the excruciating but not unfamiliar sight of a rider weave semi-deliriously all over the road at a snail’s pace half-way up the Tourmalet. Despite the impassioned pleas and helpful if illegal running shoves from fans, the rider finally stopped, quit his bike and the Tour, had his race number ceremoniously stripped from his back by an official before he was escorted to the ignominy of the broom wagon which transports deserters funereally along the route behind the race.

‘How on earth can you put into words what we’ve just witnessed?’ Cat marvels to Alex once the Stage has finished. ‘I’m utterly exhausted, I’m speechless. I want to cry and go to sleep.’

‘Fuck off and stop being so girlie,’ Alex declares, envious of Cat’s entitlement and ability to express emotions mirroring his own but which bravado in the salle de pressé dictates he should keep close to himself.

‘I know,’ Josh says sympathetically, giving her arm a squeeze, ‘I know.’

You know nothing, Cat thinks miserably, suddenly wanting to be shot of her work so she can enlighten Rachel and appease Ben. In privacy.

Her phone rings and she goes to the back of the salle before answering it.

‘Oh my God,’ Fen all but wails.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Pip whispers.

‘Jesus, what’s wrong?’ Cat gasps. ‘Is it Django?’

‘Django?’ Fen retorts, ‘God no. He’s fine. He’s having to have a stiff brandy though – we’ve just phoned him.’

‘Today, stupid,’ Pip cries, ‘how did they do that? Why were they made to do that?’

‘Huh?’ says Cat.

‘The Tour de Bloody France,’ Pip protests.

Cat grins.

My two sisters. In the fold. Part of the fraternity.

‘That guy – the weeny Spanish climber,’ Fen says, ‘how did he do that on the final climb? It was like there was suddenly a motor on his bike. Was it my imagination or did he actively choose the steepest part to suddenly power away from the faltering?’

‘Strategy,’ Cat replies, ‘undoubtedly – Velasquez always bides his time and then attacks. Imagine the effect it has on those he pulls away from.’

‘And all for a spotty jersey,’ says Pip contemplatively.

‘And Jawlensky finished ahead of gorgeous Ducasse and diminished the Frenchman’s lead to a minute,’ Fen rues. ‘Did I pronounce Vasily’s surname correctly? With a “y” not a “j”?’

‘Perfectly,’ Cat confirms. ‘What with Velasquez – that’s a “th” not a “z” at the end of his name – in polka dot, and Lomers and Sassetta still at loggerheads for the green jersey, this Tour is being waged on a personal level between Système Vipère and Zucca MV.’

‘But it was so cold, so misty and grim today,’ Pip says plaintively.

‘And that boy went careering off the side of the mountain,’ Fen remarks.

‘David Millar?’ says Cat. ‘He’s fine – thanks to a bush. He lost his bike but managed not to lose too much time.’

‘What do you think will happen tomorrow?’ Pip asks.

Suddenly, Cat wonders. ‘Today changed many things,’ she says, ‘tomorrow, I would say, even more so.’

‘What do you mean?’ Fen probes.

‘Read my report – it’s all in my concluding paragraph.’

‘Er, Cat,’ says Pip, her mind switching from lycra and bikes to flesh and beds, ‘how’s Ben?’

‘Fuck,’ Cat bemoans.

‘What?’ Fen says.

‘It’s complicated and horrible and I’ve created a sorry mess for myself.’

‘Details, please,’ Pip demands. Cat gives her sisters a nutshell version which more than suffices.

‘Well, don’t you dare back off from unravelling it,’ Fen cautions.

‘Humble pie can be quite nourishing,’ Pip says encouragingly.

Django phoned almost as soon as Pip and Fen had gone.

‘They’re bloody lunatics!’ was his opening statement.

‘Who are?’ Cat said, startled at the severity of his accusation.

‘Your bloody bike boys,’ Django brandished. ‘Fancy wanting to ride a push bike up five fuckers of mountains. Bloody mad. Are they on drugs? I’m on double brandy after that.’

‘Good question,’ Cat said a little despondently.

‘Why all the sex?’ Django demanded.

‘The sex?’ Cat exclaimed, wondering if Django would move on to rock and roll next. ‘Where?’

‘On the mountains,’ Django said ingenuously, ‘that lovely Liggett commentator was telling us that certain riders bonk whores.’

‘What?’ Cat exclaimed aghast.

‘Oh yes,’ Django continued, ‘on the mountains themselves.’

Cat fell silent and then grinned. ‘Are you talking hors catégories?’

‘That’s the one!’ Django confirmed. ‘Would it have something to do with those mountains being such a bitch to climb?’

Cat roared with laughter, much to the consternation of a posse of Portuguese journalists near by. ‘Hors,’ she stressed, spelling it out, ‘hors catégorie means “beyond classification” – and yes, I suppose they are the bitch climbs.’

‘And the bonking?’ Django probed, most interested.

‘When a rider bonks, it’s like a marathon runner hitting the proverbial wall,’ Cat explained.

‘Have you bonked?’ Django asked.

‘I am knackered,’ Cat conceded.

‘Yes but have you bonked,’ Django pressed, ‘your doctor?’

Oh God. Ben. The boyfriend. The bullshit.

‘Ben?’ Cat used the house phone in the foyer of the Megapac team hotel.

‘Not a good time,’ Ben said, quite plausibly, though there was no one else in his bedroom and nothing urgent requiring his attention.

‘Come to me later?’ Cat said softly.

‘Perhaps,’ Ben said. ‘Don’t wait up for me, though.’

‘Rachel?’ said Cat, using the house phone in the foyer of the Zucca MV team hotel.

‘Hullo,’ Rachel replied.

‘Can I come up?’ Cat asked. ‘I’m desperate for a chat.’

‘Of course,’ said Rachel, intrigued and feeling too that she was entitled to an explanation. She placed her portable grocery store at Cat’s disposal. Gratefully, Cat filled a bowl with cereal and munched thoughtfully.

‘It was bullshit,’ she said at length, ‘what Josh told you.’

‘You didn’t tell him you have a boyfriend?’ Rachel probed.

‘No!’ Cat wailed. ‘I mean, I did tell him I have a boyfriend.’

‘Do you?’ Rachel pressed, obviously suspicious.

‘No,’ Cat said a little sadly, but quite categorically, ‘I don’t. Not any more.’

‘Since when?’ Rachel enquired, wondering if Cat had chucked him that evening.

‘Since a few months ago,’ Cat defined quietly.

Rachel regarded Cat. ‘Why did you tell Josh that you did,’ she asked quite reasonably, ‘if he no longer exists?’

‘I regret telling Josh that I did,’ Cat said, ‘but I told him very early on because – well, because it felt like protection. I didn’t know if he was trying to come on to me. I didn’t know there’d be Ben.’

Rachel nodded slowly. ‘Did Josh come on to you?’

Cat smiled and shook her head. ‘He’s a lovely married guy,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t know until after I’d spun my yarn.’

‘Well, you’ve created some tangle. You should put him straight. He Who No Longer Exists – as I think I’ll call him – has a stature he obviously doesn’t deserve.’

‘I know,’ Cat sighed, ‘I know. There hasn’t been the right time.’

‘Och, bollocks,’ said Rachel with fine Scots directness, ‘there’s never a wrong time – not when it concerns people of whom you are fond and who care about you.’

‘I know,’ Cat nodded, ‘I know.’

‘Have you cleared things with Ben?’

‘Not yet,’ Cat said, ‘but not from want of trying.’

‘Bloody boys,’ Rachel said, somewhat connivingly. ‘Was he bloody? Your ex?’

‘Yes,’ Cat admitted, ‘he was.’ She would have been pleased to elaborate, to tell Rachel all about Him and all about Ben had there not been a rap at the door. Vasily entered wearing only a towel – a skimpy one – around his waist. Cat’s eyes bulged and she flitted an impressed glance over to Rachel whose gaze was exclusively focused on the rider.

‘Rachel,’ Vasily said in his gloriously Slavic way, ‘you said you had something for me.’

Cat bit her lip.

‘Of course,’ Rachel exclaimed, smacking her forehead, ‘I suggested a bath.’ She looked over to Cat. ‘Epsom salts and vinegar – soigneurs of yore swore by them. If it soothes, it’s good, I say.’

‘I’d better go,’ said Cat.

‘Yeah,’ Rachel said, sternly but kindly, ‘you have work to do.’

‘Great ride,’ Cat beamed at Vasily, who was used to such praise but always accepted it graciously. ‘You might do it tomorrow, hey? You need only put a minute into Fabian.’

‘Shadow me tomorrow, Cat,’ Rachel said. ‘I’m doing the feed. You’ll get a great view – you’ll get my view – there may be an article in it.’

‘Too right,’ said Cat, adding a call to Andy at Maillot slightly higher on her mental list than transcribing Luca’s interview.

Cat left the hotel, omitting to ponder on the Vasily-Rachel situation about which she was faintly curious. She was much more concerned with returning to her hotel room, for Ben to come to her. She didn’t wonder whether or not Rachel would slip into the bath with Vasily. She did not consider how recuperative a bath of Epsom salts and vinegar might be. Nor did she ponder the effect of 5 hours, 49 minutes and 40 seconds at an average speed of 32 kph on Vasily’s libido.

There is a rap at Cat’s door. It has gone midnight but she knows the code of Ben’s knocking. She does not put the light on. She answers the door and Ben pushes her back into the room.

‘Ben,’ she whispers, ‘I need to—’

He clasps his hand over her mouth. It turns her on. He pushes her roughly on to the bed.

‘But I want to—’

This time he hisses at her to shut up. His forcefulness is thrilling. She lies there and lets herself be taken. He places his arms under her waist and thrusts his cock into her with absolutely no preamble. He hasn’t kissed her yet. Hasn’t touched her at all really. Once he’s inside her, humping her vigorously, he finds her mouth and tongues her voraciously. Her hands are enmeshed in his hair, their mouths are fused together, their limbs are intertwined, their bodies moving in frantic unison. He comes very quickly. She hasn’t climaxed but the sex lacks nothing for her. Suddenly he’s away from her. She can hear him fiddling with the condom.

‘Cheers,’ he says, into the dark.

He’s left the bed.

‘Ben?’ she calls after him. ‘There’s something I—’

‘Not now, Cat,’ he says. He leaves the room. Cat is simultaneously exhilarated and yet unnerved.

‘Ben,’ she says quietly, though she knows he is gone, ‘there’s no one back home. You can have my undivided attention.’

And my affection, I rather think.

Say that out loud.

God no. Far too risky.